


Life After Wartime

by lastwingedthing



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M, Sexswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-27
Updated: 2009-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-05 07:37:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastwingedthing/pseuds/lastwingedthing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brad's reached his limit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life After Wartime

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Porn Skirmish, to the prompt 'Ray wakes up a girl'. This did not go in the direction I originally intended!

Brad has been a Marine for pretty much the entirety of his adult life. All the shit that goes along with it, all the irretrievably fucked-up situations he's been putting up with for almost a decade – that's just the price he has to pay to become a warrior. Brad deals with it and then moves on.

But this – Brad has survived months of poor planning and incompetent command and barely-existent supply chains, but this is too much, this is going to break him. Now that the war is over and they are all – all but one – heading safely home, _now_ Brad has reached his absolute limit for fucked-up.

Now Brad's lying on his bunk – a top bunk, isolated, above his fellow men. The way he likes it. Except that from up here, he has a perfect view of what's happening below him. He keeps himself turned away, at first, but he can't block his ears, can't stop himself from hearing. Catcalls, crude and pornographic comments – they all keep it quiet, don't want to draw any attention from outside, but even then every word goes through him with a sharp clean shock like a bullet.

Eventually, of course, he gives in. Rolls over – trying to make it subtle even as he knows that a grand total of fucking no-one is going to be fooled – and stares down to the group of – men standing around the base of the opposite bunk.

He's early, tonight, hadn't lasted very long at all before he had to turn and look. Even the famed Iceman patience is deserting him. The reason for that is laughing below him, taking off his shirt. Ray had never been one for the grooming standard, but now, during the day, he goes fully clothed everywhere, layers of shirts and undershirts even in the tropical heat. At night –

At night he's like one of those puzzle pictures, the old woman and the young lady's faces together. You can see one of them, or the other, but never both; your eyes and brain just aren't equipped to handle it. It's always one thing or the other.

During the day he always seems the same Corporal Ray Person, Brad's RTO, loud and rude and foul-mouthed, the same man he's always been. He'll swagger around with oversized sunglasses and dirty jokes, drive everyone mad singing Avril Lavigne at the top of his lungs, spend hours of his free time chainsmoking and trading increasingly pornographic insults with Brad or one of the other men. And then at night he'll stand like this, still talking crude and filthy, and strip.

And just like that, it's like the man Brad knows has disappeared - has _changed_ \- all over again. Ray's still lean and pale and muscled, hair clipped short and tattoos dark against his skin. But now Ray's edges are rounded, soft curves where there should be flat planes and jutting bones. The new breasts are small, the curve of his hips and ass slight enough to disappear under his uniform. When he's naked, there's no denying or ignoring what Ray has become.

Nor is there any real surprise in what happens next. All of them, including Ray, are Marines, spend more than half their time spinning barely-plausible stories about sex, what they've had and what they want and what they're going to get, when they finally see a woman again. It seems to make no difference to anyone – not even fucking _Ray_ – that until three weeks ago their woman was a man.

Brad tries not to make note of names or faces, who comes to Ray night after night and who stays on the perimeter outside it all, but it's pointless. Brad knows every single one, how many times they've been, how long they spend. He's heard everything. Ray's loud and unashamed – they all are, used to months of jerking off in close quarters, sharing the same magazines – but it still feels like a line's been crossed when he hears Ray loudly criticising the oral technique of the man between his legs or crying out in surprised pleasure the first time he feels a cock inside him. He's seen Ray masturbating, naked from the waist down with both hands between his legs and a stained cockbook in front of him that's open to a page of a sultry blonde with her legs spread, and somehow that feels even more transgressive; during the day, when Ray talks about finding a woman in Sydney, Brad sees the hungry looks the other men exchange and somehow their shared lust at that image makes him even angrier.

There isn't much Ray hasn't tried. Tonight is almost routine, for him: two men, half-naked, pulling Ray down between them onto the pile of clothes on the floor beside his bunk. Ray's on all fours, exposed, submissive; all three are acting out almost self-consciously the porn they've all been jerking off to for years. It is porn: Brad's hardly the only one watching, as if suddenly the presence of tits and a pussy negates every carefully-enforced rule about when it is not appropriate to see or acknowledge their fellow men.

There's one man kneeling behind Ray now, one man sliding underneath Ray, lifting Ray on top of him. Brad can't see exactly what they're doing, but he can see Ray's face change, slackening in sudden pleasure. Ray throws back his head and moans a little, urging them on hot and filthy. He's always been small for a Recon Marine, wiry rather than bulked up with muscle but no less strong for it; now, though, the contrast between Ray and the men behind him make Ray seem tiny, almost fragile. The man behind Ray is over six feet tall, his hands massive as they grip Ray's shoulders and trace the crease between his breasts.

Brad is so fucking angry. At the men, at Ray for letting them do this to him, at Ray for _enjoying_ it – every night it's the same, twisting low and heavy in his gut, making his jaw ache and his head pound. Every night, it's all he can do to keep himself still in his bed, stop himself from lashing out at everyone. And every night, it ends the same way: Brad watching, angry, so fucking angry, so hard he can barely think or breathe or move.

He'll touch himself in the end. Like he is now. Eyes fixed on the sweaty curve of Ray's back, hand creeping down below his waistband. He never lasts more than a couple strokes; sometimes he comes the moment he feels his own fingers wrap around his dick.

Tonight he's close, almost there, when Ray looks directly up at him. Ray's eyes are dark and hungry in his flushed face, lips parted, and fuck, _fuck_, it's too fucking much. Ray is staring at _him_. He can't –

He realises, with the distant part of his brain that never stops assessing every sound or movement Ray Person makes, that Ray is coming himself. The way his muscles tense, his face changes; it's plain as daylight. Ray's quiet, though, mouth open in a silent shout.

Brad comes realising that Ray's mouthing his name.


End file.
